“Señor Abrossa,” he said-the cover name Davila had given when he’d called yesterday. Díaz now presented a business card they’d had printed yesterday. “Good day. Delighted to meet you.”
“And I’m pleased to meet such an illustrious client of Señor Davila.”
“And how is he? I thought he might come himself.”
“He sends his regards. He’s getting ready for the auction of eighteenth century Bibles.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. One of the few books I don’t collect. Which is a shame. I understand that the plot is very compelling.”
Díaz laughed. “The characters, too.”
“Ah, the Dickens.”
Taking it reverently, the man unwrapped the bubble plastic and examined the volume and flipped through it. “It is thrilling to know that Dickens himself held this very book.”
Cuchillo was lost in the book, a gaze of admiration and respect. Not lust or possessiveness.
And in the silence, Díaz looked around and noted that this house was filled with much art and sculpture. All tasteful and subdued. This was not the house of a gaudy drug lord. He had been inside those. Filled with excess-and usually brimming with beautiful and marginally clad women.
It was then that a sudden and difficult thought came to Díaz. Was it at all possible that they’d made a mistake? Was this subdued, cultured man not the vicious dog they’d been led to believe? After all, there’d never been any hard proof that Cuchillo was the drug lord many believed him to be. Just because one was rich and tough didn’t mean he was a criminal.
Where exactly had the intelligence assigning guilt come from? How reliable was it?
He realized Cuchillo was looking at him with curiosity. “Now, Señor Abrossa, are you sure you’re the book dealer I’ve been led to believe?”
Using all his willpower, Díaz kept a smile on his face and dipped a brow in curiosity.
The man laughed hard. “You’ve forgotten to ask for the money.”
“Ah, sometimes I get so caught up in the books themselves that, you’re right, I do forget it’s a business. I personally would give books away to people who appreciate them.”
“I most certainly won’t tell your employer you said that.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick envelop. “There is the fiftyfive thousand. U.S. “Díaz handed him the receipt on Davila’s letterhead and signed “V. Abrossa.”
“Thank you…?” Cuchillo asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Victor.” Díaz put the money in the attaché case and closed it. He looked around. “Your home, it is very lovely. I’ve always wondered about the houses in this neighborhood.”
“Thank you. Would you like to see the place?”
“Please. And your collection, too, if possible.”
“Of course.”
Cuchillo then lead him on a tour of the house, which was, like the living room, filled with understated elegance. Pictures of youngsters-his nieces and nephews who lived in Mexico City and Chihuahua, he explained. He seemed proud of them.
Díaz couldn’t help wondering again: Was this a mistake?
“Now, come to my library. As a booklover, I hope you will be impressed.”
They walked through the kitchen, where Cuchillo paused and asked the housekeeper how her ailing mother was doing. He nodded as she answered. He told her to take any time off she needed. His eyes were narrow with genuine sympathy.
A mistake…?
They walked out the back door and through the shade of twin brick walls, the ones protecting him from sniper shots, and then into the library.
Even as a non-book lover, Díaz was impressed. More than impressed.
The place astonished him. He knew the size from the drone images, but he hadn’t imagined it would be filled as completely as it was. Everywhere, books. It seemed the walls were made of them, like rich tiles in all different sizes and colors and textures.
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”
They walked slowly through the cool room and Cuchillo talked about some of the highlights in the collection. “My superstars,” he said. He pointed out some as they walked.
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Conan Doyle, Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T.E. Lawrence, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter, Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett, Night and Day by Virginia Woolf, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien, The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce, A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu by Marcel Proust, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by Frank Baum, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling, The Bridge by Hart Crane, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, The Thirty-Nine Steps by John Buchan, The Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie, Casino Royale by Ian Fleming.
“And our nation’s writers too, of course-that whole wall there. I love all books, but it’s important for us in Mexico to be aware of our people’s voice.” He strode forward and displayed a few. “Salvador Novo, Jos Gorostiza, Xavier Villaurrutia, and the incomparable Octavio Paz. Whom you’ve read, of course.”
“Of course,” Díaz said, praying that Cuchillo would not ask for the name of one of Paz’s books, much less a plot or protagonist.
Díaz noted a book near the man’s plush armchair. It was in a display case, James Joyce’s Ulysses. He happened to have read about the title last night on a rare book website. “Is that the original 1922 edition?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“It’s worth about $150,000.”
Cuchillo smiled. “No. It’s worth nothing.”
“Nothing?”
His arm swept in a slow circle, indicating the room. “This entire collection is worth nothing.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Something has value only to the extent the owner is willing to sell. I would never sell a single volume. Most book collectors feel this way, more so than about paintings or cars or sculpture.”
The businessman picked up The Maltese Falcon. “You are perhaps surprised I have in my collection spy and detective stories?”
The agent recited a fact he’d read. “Of course, popular commercial fiction is usually more valuable than literature.” He hoped he’d got this straight.
He must have. Cuchillo was nodding. “But I enjoy them for their substance as well as their collectability.”
This was interesting. The agent said, “I suppose crime is an art form in a way.”
Cuchillo’s head cocked and he seemed confused. Díaz’s heart beat faster.
The collector said, “I don’t mean that. I mean that crime and popular novelists are often better craftspeople than so-called literary writers. The readers know this; they appreciate good storytelling over pretentious artifice. Take that book I just bought, The Old Curiosity Shop. When it first came out, serialized in weekly parts, people in New York and Boston would wait on the docks when the latest installment was due to arrive from England. They’d shout to the sailors, ‘Tell us, is Little Nell dead?’” He glanced at the display case. “I suspect not so many people did that for Ulysses. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, sir, yes.” Then he frowned. “But wasn’t Curiosity Shop serialized in monthly parts?”
After a moment Cuchillo smiled. “Ah, right you are. I don’t collect periodicals, so I’m always getting that confused.”